


One Week

by BadGirlCC



Series: Weeks with Poirot [1]
Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Diary/Journal, F/M, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, originally meant to be /reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadGirlCC/pseuds/BadGirlCC
Summary: What happens when she is hired for a week as a secretary for a demanding and brilliant man? Will she make it to Friday?
Relationships: Hercule Poirot/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Weeks with Poirot [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843921
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19





	One Week

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my friend M. for Beta-ing this for me. It's completely self-indulgent, but that's okay. I'd originally set out to write this as a /reader fic but it wasn't coming out how I wanted it so it became a first-person account. Think of it as looking back in your diary if you wish. 
> 
> Feel free to leave con-crit. Moderation is off, but if it gets mean out there I'll turn it on. 
> 
> Thanks for your time, and I hope you enjoy!

~FRIDAY~

When I interviewed with Miss Felicity Lemon to be her temporary replacement, she made it very clear that her employer was very exacting. When I was undaunted by her description of the duties I would be responsible for handling, Miss Lemon agreed to hire me. She instructed me to meet her at 8 a.m. sharp on the following Friday so that she could instruct me in the filing system.

That morning I was very glad I took pains to dress extra sharply because that was the morning I met my temporary employer.

My head was bowed over the information Miss Lemon was presenting, and I was intent on absorbing it all. I suddenly felt conscious of my actions, as though I were being observed by someone other than Miss Lemon. My dangling earrings lightly brushed my jawline as I stood upright and turned to investigate. 

A well dressed older man stood before me. His mustache was neatly trimmed and waxed into submission, his matching grey jacket, waistcoat and trousers very well-tailored, his patent leather shoes shined to perfection, his high collar perfectly starched, his bow tie tied neatly and centered perfectly. Clearly, this was a man who was very precise and cared about his appearance. 

“Good morning, Sir. How may we help you,” I asked brightly, not knowing for sure who I was addressing.

The impeccable man bowed slightly and said, “I am Hercule Poirot. You will be my secretary while Miss Lemon is away on the holiday. She has told to Poirot the results of your interview. I hope you are ready to work very hard for me.” 

Of course, I knew the name of Hercule Poirot. Surely he was world-famous by this point. He had famously helped royalty and peers across Europe with mysteries of every calibur. Almost instantly I replied, “Oui monsieur. Je ferai de mon mieux.” His eyes twinkled, and a smile spread across his face, wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “Ah, bon! It is good to hear mademoiselle!” Poirot then turned to Miss Lemon and said, “Miss Lemon, I believe you have chosen your replacement most excellently.”

I spent the rest of the morning learning the complicated filing system of Miss Lemon’s own design as well as how Monsieur Poirot liked things done. At lunchtime, Miss Lemon dismissed me saying I'd learned all I needed to know for the upcoming week, and entrusted me with the spare key. 

All weekend long I was filled with nervous anticipation. I wanted so badly to impress Monsieur Poirot. It was surely reasonable, considering who he was, after all. Why shouldn't I want to work hard and impress someone important?

~MONDAY~

Monday morning came, and I took great pains with my outfit. Everything needed to be as complimentary and as tidy as possible. Surely Monsieur Poirot would be observing me on my first day. I selected one of my favorite dresses. It wasn't an expensive dress but it was my favorite color, and I looked amazing in it. After tidying my hair and double-checking the seams of my stockings, I set off.

I arrived precisely at eight, checked my reflection in the hall mirror as I passed, and quickly put away my things. Monsieur Poirot was not at his desk, so I took a deep breath and settled in at mine. There were one or two things that needed a response on the desk. Since Monsieur Poirot had left instructions on what the responses should be, I wrote them up immediately and prepared them for the postman. Finding nothing else that needed immediate attention, I went to the kitchen to heat a kettle of water in case Monsieur Poirot required his tisane.

Poirot emerged wearing another impeccable suit. Not a hair was out of place on his balding head, or in his perfectly waxed mustache. His cufflinks flashed in the morning sunlight as he settled himself at his desk, making sure he was centered perfectly before calling me in. “Good morning mademoiselle,” he said, “My tisane if you please.” 

“Oui Monsieur. Right away.”

Since I had already heated the water, I had only to steep the herbs, which was done shortly after I neatly arranged the tray. I took the utmost care with pouring the tisane into one of the beautifully crafted glasses Monsieur Poirot had for hot drinks, centered it on the tray again, assured myself that the napkin was clean, and brought the tray to Monsieur Poirot.

He was busy reading his newspaper when I returned. I placed the tray to his right silently, and was about to ask if there were anything else I could do for him at the moment when he said, “I placed some correspondences on your desk over the weekend, respond to them s'il vous plaît.” I smiled brightly, “I have already done so, monsieur. I will hand them to the postman personally when he brings the morning post.” 

Monsieur Poirot lowered his paper slightly and looked at me over his pince-nez. The corners of his mouth raised ever so slightly. “Bon. That will be all for now,” he said and raised his newspaper again. 

“Oui monsieur.”

I turned and went back to my own desk. I felt wonderful! I felt like I'd just been given a test and passed with flying colors. The first half-hour of the day had gone very well and I felt lighter than I had in days.

The rest of the day continued on just as well as the morning had gone. I fielded calls, took messages, announced a guest, and brought tea. I was pleasantly busy, but the day was unremarkable.

The next day, however, was different.

~TUESDAY~

I was running a bit late and had to quite literally run for my bus. My hair was disheveled and my stockings had probably gone askew, but there was nothing to be done for it.

I somehow arrived before Monsieur Poirot had emerged from his apartment, and had time to fix my unruly hair. I sat again at my desk to see more correspondence that needed to be sent. I took care of it as efficiently as I could and readied myself for the day as much as possible.

Monsieur Poirot asked for his tisane as soon as he stepped from his apartment. I was momentarily struck again by how faultlessly he was dressed. He was a bit out of fashion with his shirt fronts and high collars, but somehow he cut a dashing figure.

I had to rush a bit this time to prepare his beverage. I had forgotten to heat the kettle, despite knowing he would require his tisane immediately. Being late for the bus had set the rest of my day off-kilter already.

In my haste, dreadfully aware of how long I was taking, I set the tray before Poirot and the tisane splashed out. The puddle that formed around the glass wasn't a large one. It seemed hardly any had splashed. As I turned to go, he said, "Make it again."

He didn't raise his voice. He barely looked up from his paper. Just like that. 

"Make it again." 

I blushed as I picked up the tray.

"Oui Monsieur."

I felt so foolish! It was just a little splash. Couldn't he have just drunk it and let it be? I felt flustered as I cleaned the tray and started again. As the kettle steamed away, I felt a tendril of hair come loose. I didn't have time to fix it then; Monsieur required his tisane.

As I approached this time, he stood. He watched as I placed the tray much more carefully and didn't spill a drop. His eyes sparkled as he smiled with approval. 

Poirot gestured at his temple. I remembered the loose curl and flushed again. Still smiling, he reached out. "May I," he asked. I stepped forward, a little nervous. His fingers brushed my face as he reached for the curl and deftly tucked it back where it belonged. Electricity shot through me, and I closed my eyes as I resisted the urge to press his hand to my cheek.

"There. Your beautiful coiffure is back in its place."

I opened my eyes and stepped back again.

"Thank you, mademoiselle. That is all for now."

"Oui, Monsieur."

I turned and went to my desk. Just like that, the day was back on perfect course. I couldn't understand it, but I also couldn't argue with it.

Monsieur Poirot had one caller that day. A glamorous woman with fiery red hair, dressed head to toe in soft greyish pink with white fur accents. When she declined tea, Monsieur Poirot asked me to sit in and take notes of their conversation. Luckily I had been studying my shorthand and had no reservations about doing so.

Her name was Glinda Portroyal. She had come to see Monsieur Poirot because her lover had gone missing, and only the world-renowned Hercule Poirot could help her find him. 

Monsieur Poirot tried to hide his delight at being praised in such a manner, but the veil was thin, and it was obvious he took pleasure in the young woman thinking of him in such a way.

As she continued her story, Poirot listened very carefully. Gerald Hogglesby had made a date with her on last Friday evening, but had never shown up. She didn't think he'd just got held up because no one in their circles had heard from him at all. Poirot took his description from her and promised to find out what he could.

After I'd shown Miss Portroyal out of the office, Monsieur Poirot set me to the task of finding anything I could about Gerald Hogglesby.

I carefully checked Miss Lemon's files with no results. I telephoned all of the newspapers I could think of to query their archives. Again no results. I telephoned the public records office to try and find a certificate of birth or death, with still no results. I steeled myself to break the news to Monsieur Poirot. I had probably failed him and he would have to wait until Miss Lemon came back from her holiday to finish this case.

I stood before his desk and waited for him to acknowledge me. 

"Yes, mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur, I didn't find anything. I may be missing something, but I found nothing about any person called Gerald Hogglesby."

He grinned from ear to ear. The confusion must have shown on my face because he said, "It is the false name. This Gerald Hogglesby is the fraud. I suspected as much when the young lady was telling to me the story of woe, but I wished for you to confirm it for me." Poirot checked his pocket watch and noted the time. "You have done well today mademoiselle," he said, "Why don't you go home a bit early today, and we shall begin again tomorrow?"

I internally protested. I didn't want to go! Not yet! It was only a bit past 4:30. I still had a half-hour to go! Why did I care? Why did I not want to go home early? I really had no reason not to go, except… no, I couldn't go down that path. I was only here for three more days and I'd likely never see him again.

“Is there anything I can do for you before I go for the evening?”

“No, Mademoiselle. That will be all.”

I only said, "Oui, Monsieur," and went to gather my hat and coat. 

All that evening I kept thinking about him. The more I tried not to think about his eyes sparkling when he smiled at me, or how his hand had felt against my cheek, the more I did. 

By the next morning, I had made up my mind. 

~WEDNESDAY~

I arrived a bit early so that I could avoid yesterday's mistake of not starting the kettle. I attended to my desk and awaited Monsieur Poirot. He appeared promptly, looking as dashing as ever. After I placed the tisane on the tray, I deftly pulled loose the curl that had come loose the day before, and one on the other side just to be thorough.

I placed the tray down ever so gently. Not a drop spilled; it barely made a sound. I stood quietly by as if waiting for instructions, but really I was waiting for his touch.

"Mademoiselle, your hair is in a disarray. Please attend to it."

My heart sank. My stupid little girl's ploy had not worked. Of course, it hadn't! Hercule Poirot was a genius! Of course, he could see through my idiocy. I tried not to let disappointment creep into my voice when I said, "Oui Monsieur," and went to the hall mirror to fix my hair as he'd asked.

A bit later, as I sat typing the notes from the day before, Poirot came into the office and asked me to place an advertisement in the Times. He dictated to me exactly what he wanted it to say, and I jotted it down in shorthand. 

The advertisement asked for Mr. Gerald Hogglesby to come to Poirot’s address at tea time on the following day. Since we had already determined that Hogglesby was a false name, Poirot could have only been trying to find his real identity.

Once I had placed the advertisement with the Times, it was time to prepare his lunch. I set the table as precisely as I could, then went to the kitchen to prepare a salade Nicoise. I soft boiled an egg, blanched a handful of haricot vert, sliced a large tomato, and opened a tin of oil-packed tuna. After mixing the oil of the tuna with olive oil and a small bit of mustard to make a vinaigrette, I carefully arranged the ingredients on a bed of lettuce. I proudly placed the plate in front of Poirot as he tucked his napkin into his collar.

After I filled his glass with white wine, I looked up to see a look of disappointment on his face. He was looking at the haricot vert where I had placed them together on the plate. 

“What is wrong Monsieur?”

“These haricot vert are of vastly different sizes. I cannot eat them, Mademoiselle.”

I felt my face flush. I should have known to check. I should have made the plate with more precision. I reached for the plate, my thoughts racing about what I should have done instead. I felt his eyes upon me, the look of disappointment burned into my soul. I felt my hand touch the cool glass of his wine flute and knew it was too late. I watched in slow motion as the glass fell onto the pristine white table cloth.

“Oh no! Monsieur, I am so sorry! Please let me take it away and start over again. It will be right in only a moment!”

His face was flushed too. I could only imagine that he was angry with me and I was about to lose this job. He took the napkin out of his collar and laid it on the table without saying anything. He stood up and walked back to his desk without so much as a peep.

Tears began welling up in my eyes as I began clearing the table. I cleared away the dishes and bundled the tablecloth off into the laundry. I removed the offending haricot vert from the plate and began to find matching ones before I began to sob. I was disappointed in myself, he was disappointed in me, and now I was going to lose this job and never be able to come back again. I knew that was the inevitable ending to this week, but I was supposed to have 2 more days with him.

HA! I laughed at myself. I wasn’t supposed to be doing this. I had known him for 3 days and he was nothing more than my very demanding employer. How stupid could I be?

As I finished sorting the haricot vert into the same sizes, I heard him enter the kitchen. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t face him, not when I’d been crying. Not when I’d made such a horrible mess of things

.

“I’ll be gone as soon as lunch is finished, Monsieur. I can’t leave a mess for you to clean up, but you’ll never see me again after that.”

My voice was shaking with obvious tears. I couldn’t hide it at all. I had wanted so badly to impress him, and now I would be leaving in shame.

“Please turn around Mademoiselle.”

He said it so softly and kindly, I couldn’t do anything but obey. I kept my eyes to the floor as I turned, and there I saw his outstretched hand offering me a handkerchief. I debated whether or not to take it. When I decided that I should, he grasped my hand in both of his as I reached for it. 

My heart began racing, and I looked into his eyes, searching for what this gesture meant. He was smiling gently.

Poirot asked softly, “Is that what you desire, Mademoiselle? Do you desire to leave Poirot?”

“No, Monsieur. I don’t wish to leave.”

I didn’t finish the sentence as it was in my mind.

“Bon,” he continued like he was speaking to a spooked horse, “Because Poirot does not wish you to leave. “Do you remember the promise you gave to Poirot on the first day he met you, Mademoiselle?”

I nodded. Of course, I remembered. 

“Je ferai de mon mieux,’ I repeated softly.

“Correct, Mademoiselle. You have kept your promise to Poirot, and worked very hard for him.”

I stared at him wide-eyed. Surely he was joking.

“But the haricot vert… and the wine…” I protested

“Ah, yes,” he smiled even more, his eyes beginning to twinkle. “You have made mistakes today, but that does not mean you were not trying very hard. Even Poirot has spilled the wine before when he was very young.”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. I couldn’t imagine Poirot ever making mistakes in anything.

“Bon! Bon! There is that beautiful smile, Mademoiselle! Maintenant, let us try the lunch again, eh?”

I couldn’t help but smile even more. I nodded, and he let go of my hand, leaving me his handkerchief to dry my eyes. 

I blanched the newly sorted and sized haricot vert and rearranged the plate to include them. Then I reset the table and poured the wine before I triumphantly brought the salade Nicoise out. As I sat it in front of him, he playfully inspected it. I couldn’t hide my enthusiastic smile or laughter. He dug in, cutting everything neatly, and taking a small bite so he didn’t dirty his mustache. He smiled in delight as he chewed. He washed it down with a sip from the newly poured glass of wine.

“Mademoiselle, this was well worth the wait. This salade Nicoise is most excellent!”

I smiled and flushed at his praise. 

“Merci, Monsieur. I hope you enjoy your lunch”

I curtsied and returned to my desk.

The rest of the day went by as if nothing had happened. Both of us smiled and were a bit more playful than before, but the lunch incident was never brought up again.

~THURDSAY~

I came in early again, determined not to be caught off guard by any of Poirot’s requests or needs. I was going to get it as right as possible, and I was going to keep my promise to do my best.

Today was the day that the impostor was supposed to show up. I was curious to see if he actually would. Maybe he thought he was going to get a prize? Perhaps he’d come clean to Poirot just because he didn’t want there to be a misunderstanding. So many men have no problem being complete scoundrels to women but cannot fathom the idea of being even a slight inconvenience to another man. He wouldn’t come until tea time- if he came at all. I had a long day to wait before we found out how much of a cad he truly was.

I had taken Poirot’s handkerchief home to wash it the night before, and it had made my handbag smell of English lavender. I laid it neatly folded in the exact center of his desk so that it made a diamond with his monogram pointing down. I smiled, hoping he would like to see it displayed in such a manner.

He said nothing about it as he called for his tisane, but he was smiling.

The day was quiet, almost to the point of being boring. Lunch was uneventful, but I made sure everything that was in pairs or higher on the plate were of the same size and shape. 

Finally, after a long quiet day, I was bringing out the tea tray. The bell rang. After gently placing the tray and centering it on the table, I answered the door. 

There he was. “Gerald Hogglesby.”

“May I help you, sir?” 

“I’m here to see a Mister Poiret about an advertisement in the Times”

I tried not to wince when he butchered Poirot’s name.

“Ah, yes. Monsieur Poirot is expecting you. Right this way, please.”

I feigned politeness excellently. I stayed to pour the tea, and left when Poirot excused me. I did sneakily open the small window between the office and the main room so that I could hear what was happening.

Of course, it was all a lie that had gone on too long and he didn’t know how to tell Miss Portroyal because she was such a nice girl and maybe it would be better if she thought something awful had happened rather than telling the truth blah, blah, blah. Poirot convinced him that he had been crueler to compound his lies than to tell her the truth and that he should go now and clear it up for her. 

After the cad had gone, Poirot asked me to draft a letter to Miss Portroyal to go out in the evening post explaining that Mr. Hogglesby was quite well and that he would come to her and explain everything to her, and not to worry about his consultation fee as it had been no trouble for him at all.

It was nearly 5 ‘o clock when everything was finished. Poirot stood in the doorway to the office as I stood to put away the last few things.

“Mademoiselle?”

I stopped what I was doing and turned to face him as I answered, “Oui, Monsieur?”

He seemed almost to hesitate. This wasn’t something I had ever seen him do before. In the few days I’d known him, he always seemed confident and capable of whatever he wanted to do

“Mademoiselle, I wanted to know if you would be available to stay for dinner tomorrow evening?”

Thinking that I would not understand what he was asking he was quick to follow up.

“It is not for work, that I ask you to stay. You have worked very hard this week, and I wanted to reward you by cooking for you.”

I wanted to throw my arms around him and hug him, but I didn’t. I restrained myself from all but a huge grin.

“Yes, Monsieur. I would love to stay for dinner tomorrow evening.”

All he said was, “Very good,” as he also grinned from ear to ear.

~FRIDAY~

I could hardly sleep. The anticipation of dinner the next night was intense. When my alarm went off, I packed my dinner dress and jewelry before I got dressed for the day at the office. I knew I was only staying after work for dinner, but I knew if anyone dressed for the occasion it was Poirot.

The day went by so slowly. Every moment a long hour of waiting and wondering what the evening would bring. I blotted a cheque and had to start over. I nearly over-steeped the tisane. Every tick of the clock brought dinner closer. Scared and excited, I did my best to focus on each task I was presented. 

I found Poirot in the doorway of the office smiling down at me as I looked up from the desk. I looked up at the clock to see that it was 5 after 5. 

“You have been very dedicated to your work today, but now it is time to rest Mademoiselle.”

I flushed, feeling silly for having lost track of the time after having watched the clock relentlessly for the first part of the day. 

"Yes, Monsieur. I'll put everything back in its place and dress for dinner."

He nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

After I put everything away where it went, I took my dinner dress into the bathroom to change. I slipped into the dove grey satin dress. It was sexier than I would normally dare, but when I saw it in the shop it was too beautiful to pass up. More importantly, I felt beautiful in it. 

The top and shoulders were open like an ancient Greek dress and held together by straps covered in glass jewels, but the sleeves were fitted from the wrist to the elbow. It was incredibly similar to a dress I'd seen Jean Harlow wear in a film, but the skirt was different. As I changed my hairstyle, the jewels glittered in the bathroom light, and I started to get really nervous.

This was probably the last time I would ever see this kind, generous, sweet man. I wanted much more than I could ever expect. I don't know if it's fair to say I'd fallen in love, but I felt something. I wanted him in my life, even if it was as my employer. Yes, he was demanding. Yes, he did insist on everything being symmetrical. Yes, he did insist on hospital-grade standards of cleanliness. He could be frustrating, but I wanted to be better for him. I didn't know what the evening would bring, but it already felt so bittersweet. I hurried up and put my bangles on before I could start crying. Normally I would do an even amount on one wrist and an odd number on the other wrist, but in honor of Hercule Poirot, I made them symmetrical tonight.

I must have taken longer than I thought to change for dinner, because when I emerged the dining table was set for 2 and there were candles flickering on it. The curtains had been drawn and the fireplace stoked so that the room was dim and cozy and bathed in warm golden lights. I could hear him in the kitchen, and whatever he was cooking smelled amazing. 

I went to the liquor cart to pour an aperitif for both of us and found sirop de cassis. Most people don't keep that on hand, so I guessed he must like it for himself. I poured some for both of us in the beautiful liqueur glasses he had and took it to the kitchen.

He was cooking away with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up. He had an apron to protect his clothes, and not a single hair was out of place despite the fact that he had been cooking for a while. He looked as much at home in this little kitchen as he did behind his grand desk. I couldn't help but smile.

"It smells amazing," I said.

He looked up from his pots and pans and almost seemed taken aback by me. I offered him the sirop de cassis, which he took with a smile and nod of thanks.

"Most people don't keep this on hand for guests, so I thought you must like it."

He took a sip and smiled. 

"You have used your little grey cells well, Mademoiselle. Indeed it is one of my favorite drinks."

I was pleased with getting it right. Some of the jitters I'd been feeling flew away.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, no Mademoiselle. You are the guest and Poirot is the host. You must not lift the finger. In any case, dinner is almost finished, and I must dress for dinner as well. You look so beautiful, and I must not fail to come up to your standard."

I blushed at the compliment. "Oui, Monsieur," was all I could say as he left the kitchen with his liqueur.

I wandered back to the sitting room and finished my aperitif. I looked at the books on his shelves and studied the sculptures commingled with them. Some titles in French, some titles in English, all arranged by color and size rather than author or title. It would have driven the average librarian mad. It had a beautiful effect though, and added to the room's sophistication.

When Poirot returned he was dressed in black tie. His amethyst pinky ring and lapel pin glinted in the firelight. He may have been older, and balding, but he was terribly handsome standing there with his hand out to lead me to the dinner table.

I took the offered hand with relish. His hand was as warm and soft as it had been the day it had brushed my cheek, or the day he held my hand and asked me not to leave. My heart fluttered and the bittersweetness of the evening intensified.

He led me to my seat and sat me down before he went into the kitchen and reappeared with the soup course. He explained that it was mushroom bisque made with wild mushrooms. It was absolutely delicious. So velvety and savory. It is still the best soup I've eaten to this day. 

The next course was a fillet of beef. It was perfectly round and accompanied by potatoes and carrots that were each the same size as the other. Again, everything was perfectly delectable. The beef was tender and seasoned well, the carrots and potatoes were each cooked in a way that brought out the best of their individual characters. It seemed there was nothing this man could not do.

The conversation was light and pleasant throughout the meal. He asked me about my life and listened with genuine interest. I returned the questions and listened just as eagerly. He had been a policeman in Belgium before the war, but he had never married. He came to England as a refugee and began again as a private detective after he'd helped his friend solve a murder case at a country house. I asked him to tell me more about his life in Belgium, but he said he didn't want to bore me.

As dessert approached I began to feel heavier. The evening was almost over and as far as I knew that would be the end of it. When he took the dinner plates away and came back with beautiful creme brulee for both of us I was almost sad to see him. 

After our exquisite dessert, we moved to the sitting room. He sat on the couch next to me and smoked a small, black, Russian cigarette. I wanted so much to reach out and touch him, to tell him somehow how I felt, that I wanted to ruin my reputation with him. There were a million things racing through my mind and none of them were appropriate to say, so I played with my bangles to keep my hands to myself.

"Mademoiselle, what is bothering you? Has this old man bored you to death this evening?"

"Oh no! Not at all! I've been having a perfectly wonderful time! I just… The evening is coming to an end and I will have to go soon."

It wasn't the whole truth, but it was truth enough. I felt tears trying to well up and hoped I could keep it together enough to not actually cry.

Poirot laughed heartily. Was he laughing at me?

“Oh, Mademoiselle! Please forgive Poirot. It is not often that people, especially beautiful young ladies, are sad when it is time to part from him.”

I smiled, but I didn’t know how to make him understand. I watched his hands as he lifted the black cigarette to his lips one last time, then extinguished the end in a tiny heart-shaped silver box.

I longed for those lips.

He stood up and went to the liquor cart and poured us both another sirop de cassis. I accepted it and sipped the dark sweet liquid, wondering what it would taste like on his lips.

“It seems, Mademoiselle, there is something you are not saying to Poirot..”

I looked at him with wide eyes. I wouldn’t expect less from a world-famous detective, but of course I couldn’t really tell him could I?

“Yes, Monsieur. There is something, but I can’t… I shouldn’t…”

I trailed off before finishing the sentence.

“Ah, I see,” he said with an almost sad look on his face.

He took my free hand and held it in his own for a moment and looked as if he were studying my bangles. Maybe he didn’t know what to say either.

“Mademoiselle, this week with you has been most delightful. I would not hesitate to have you back, but Mademoiselle I think you know how things must be.”

I did know. I knew without question how it must be, no matter how much I wanted things to be different.

“Oui, Monsieur. I know.”

When he noticed the single tear that had fallen down my cheek involuntarily, he took my empty liqueur glass and wiped it away. This time I didn’t fight the urge to lean into his hand or hold it against my face with my own.

“Please, Mademoiselle, do not cry. It is not because I do not care for you. Au contraire! It is because I 

care for you that it cannot be. You have been smart, thoughtful, and attentive the whole of this week. I will tell Miss Lemon to call only you when she must be away, and I will give you a reference to say how much I enjoy your very good work, but I will not ruin your future to keep you here with a silly old man.”

And of course, he couldn’t rearrange other people’s lives and positions just because we found we had come to care for each other. To ask him for that would be selfish. I let go of his hand and nodded.

“I’ll never forget you, Monsieur. I have never worked harder, or had more fun, with anyone else in my life. Knowing that you care for me doesn’t make it any easier to go, but knowing that I have made you happy for a few days does. I think I should go now, or I may never leave. Thank you for a wonderful evening that I shall never forget.”

I took up his hand and kissed his knuckles before standing up to leave.

After I had gathered my things, Poirot met me at the door with my coat. He helped me put it on, and I turned around to face him one last time. I was struck, then, by his nearness and the smell of his lavender aftershave and the hint of tobacco from his earlier cigarette. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief which he pressed into my hand.

He leaned in close and my heart began to thud so loudly it sounded like cannon fire in my ears. At the last moment, he kissed my cheek, leaving me with disappointment and an aching for more. 

“Bon Soirèe Monsieur.”

“Goodnight, ma chèr Mademoiselle.”

And then I was gone. I called a taxi because the bus had stopped running and I didn’t think I could walk all the way home in the condition I was in. When I finally arrived home I changed into my pajamas and hung my dress up. I knew I would have to buy another dinner dress because that one had become sacred. I placed the monogrammed handkerchief under my pillow in case I could see him again in my dreams, and cried myself to sleep.

A week later, a check from Monsieur Poirot for my week of work arrived along with a letter of reference, as he’d promised, and a short handwritten note from the man himself.

> “Chèr Mademoiselle,
> 
> I have enclosed the letter of reference as discussed. Poirot will not forget you, or that beautiful smile. Peut-être someday soon I will have need of your skills and we shall meet again soon. It is not au revoir forever, only for now. 
> 
> Your faithful servant,
> 
> Hercule Poirot

  
  
  



End file.
